


when the night has come and the land is dark

by earlgrey_milktea



Series: as long as you stand by me (ffxv works) [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Tumblr: ffxvweek, World of Ruin, that good old prompto angst™, those ten long years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea
Summary: Prompto talks a lot. It’s the first thing you learn about him, and it’s a part of him he’s all too aware of. It’s endearing, though. It might take you a little while, especially if you’re used to quiet, trained and drilled into you by the vast corridors of the Citadel, but eventually, you’ll find it endearing.And eventually, you’ll realize it’s alarming, when Prompto is quiet.a look at those ten long years of darkness, and a list of things prompto won't—can't—talk about.





	when the night has come and the land is dark

**Author's Note:**

> _ffxv week_  
>  day five: **touchy subject**
> 
> *mention of suicidal behaviour/suicide ideation/etc; skip aranea's part because she gets pretty rough with prompto  
> *apologies for weird pov, was experimenting with something  
> *promptis only if you squint  
> *title from "stand by me" of fucking course

Prompto talks a lot. It’s the first thing you learn about him, and it’s a part of him he’s all too aware of. It’s endearing, though. It might take you a little while, especially if you’re used to quiet, trained and drilled into you by the vast corridors of the Citadel, but eventually, you’ll find it endearing.

And eventually, you’ll realize it’s alarming, when Prompto is quiet.

Prompto talks about everything and anything. But, you suppose, everyone has a few things they can’t talk about.

And after the shitstorm they all suffered through under the Astrals’ hands, well. It’s not hard to understand that there are things even Prompto can’t talk about.

 

 

 

When you’re the Advisor to the future leader of the kingdom you serve, you learn to read people. Everyone has ticks, everyone has specific tells, and if you pay enough attention, these particular habits speak quite loudly about their train of thought. Ignis learns this fast, and he learns it well.

So when they retrieve Prompto and he’s quiet, so quiet, too quiet, Ignis knows something is wrong. They don’t have much time, and there’s barely any room to run, but for now, they are safe, alive. For now, they have Prompto back in Noctis’ arms, and he’s a bit shaky and wavering but he’s still in one piece. Of course you want to believe he’s okay.

But he’s not.

None of them are.

Still, even though exhaustion is seeping through his bones and the creaks and clanks of MT armour echoes through the walls of the dormitory they’ve barricaded themselves in, Ignis tries. He hasn’t been sleeping much, anyway—too often flinging himself awake into confusion because everything is dark, everything is _still dark_.

But Prompto startles awake from unspeakable nightmares he refused to share. Ignis can’t see the haunted expression on the boy’s face, but he can hear it. Noctis wakes with him, whispering soothingly as Prompto struggles to catch his breath. He sounds like he’s trying not to cry.

“Prompto,” Ignis begins, cautiously and gently, “are you okay?”

There’s a pause. Some shuffling from the bunk across from Ignis.

“I’m fine,” Prompto says.

“He’s not,” Noctis says.

Ignis sighs. “Prompto, if you need to talk about what happened—”

“I don’t,” Prompto says immediately.

“Prompto, you went through something traumatic—”

“I’m not the only one.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Prompto repeats, voice coming out short and harsh.

There’s a beat of silence. Even Gladio’s sleeping breaths have petered out. Then, Ignis makes out the sound of Prompto taking a shuddering breath, and Noctis’ soft murmuring. Unbidden, Ignis can feel his hands clench into a fist. If only he can see. He could read Prompto from all his little tells, but now—Ignis can only hear the cracks in his voice.

“Sorry,” Prompto says. “I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Ignis nods. “I’m sorry for upsetting you.” Quieter, he says, “Later, if you... change your mind, the offer will always be open.”

Prompto’s answer doesn’t come for a while. “Okay,” he whispers, sounding tired. “Thank you, Iggy.”

But they never really get a chance to talk like that, after that. When fate is persistent and everything you know comes crashing down on you and your entire life’s purpose is disappeared from you right before your very eyes, there are some things you forget to follow up on.

Prompto’s time away from the party is just one of them.

 

 

 

When you’re barely fifteen (you think, anyway, not that anyone’s really sure anymore when night seems to grow darker with each daemon scream in the distance) and you’ve grown up in a desperate war that has orphaned you waking up every day with the knowledge that you’re too small to do anything—Prompto is nothing short of a hero to you.

Even in the never-ending darkness, he remains bright and optimistic, something Talcott finds himself looking forward to every time Prompto and the others came back around to Lestallum on their rounds. Prompto tells stories of their road trip across Eos before the Empire caught up to them, he indulges Talcott in reliving Insomnia like almost nobody else does.

But when Talcott asks about Noctis, something shutters over Prompto’s face.

“Please, Prompto,” Talcott pushes one night in the hotel room-turned-apartment. “Can’t you tell me something? Anything? How about King Noctis and his fishing?”

Prompto stiffens. Talcott isn’t sure why. Maybe Noctis’ new title. But he is, now. Even if he isn’t here. Even if there isn’t really a kingdom for him to rule anymore.

“Talcott, I—” Prompto tries to smile, but it doesn’t really work. “I’m sorry, buddy, but I—I can’t. Not about—not about Noct. Sorry.”

And then Prompto is gone again, the rest of the King’s Crownsguard with him, setting out into the unforgiving dark. Talcott is left with more questions and a growing sense of helplessness, but. There are people out there fighting the daemons. There are people out there still looking for survivors to rescue. There is a King out there doing his best to end this night once and for all, and there are people waiting for him, whether he knows it or not.

So when you’re fourteen going on fifteen and your world has become so small and yet too big, you beg every hunter passing by to teach you to fight, and you vow to make it to the day when you can ask Prompto about Noctis again, only that time, the King will be right there with them, and everything will be alright.

 

 

 

When your whole life has been built towards protecting and living for someone else, it’s ridiculously hard to figure out how to go on after that someone else ups and disappears into a goddamn magical crystal. It’s not Noctis’ fault, but Gladio hates it just the same. Gladio was never supposed to be able to imagine a life without Noctis, because if Noctis is gone, then that meant he would have been gone first.

Except the Astrals don’t seem to care about that at all.

So Gladio puts his skill with a sword to good use and joins a group of hunters. There are still people to defend. There is still a King to protect, when he comes back. Because he will. He has to.

Somewhere along the way, he starts to listen more. He listens to his fellow hunters’ stories, he listens to Ignis figuring out how to restore vegetation when they meet up in Lestallum, he listens to Iris when she updates him on her own work protecting the refugees. Gladio hasn’t listened to Prompto talk about chocobos or scavenging scrap parts to tinker with or anything at all, lately.

He manages to catch the kid up at Hammerhead, delivering supplies to Cindy and them. Prompto looks much skinnier than Gladio remembers. His freckles have faded, his eyes sunken in with a haunted look Gladio sees in his own reflection. But Prompto greets him with a cheerful wave and a bad joke as always, so Gladio sits down with him outside the caravan and pops open a beer.

“So what are you up to these days?” Gladio asks.

“Oh, you know. Not dying. Helping other people not dying. What else is there to do?”

Gladio snorts. “I meant specifically. Iggy’s up in Lestallum, Iris is operating out of Lestallum, too, and I’ve been running with a group of hunters. We haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Ah. Well, I’ve been close by here, mostly.” Prompto shrugs. “Cindy’s determined to keep this place open, so somebody’s gotta deal with the fuckers nearby, right?”

Gladio raises his eyebrows at the expletive. It’s not that Prompto doesn’t swear—Gladio’s been around this kid and Noctis in their teens, he knows what their vocabulary can be like at their worst—it’s more that Prompto doesn’t talk dirty so casually.

“Sure. Who’ve you been running with?”

Prompto’s gaze skitters off. He shrugs again.

Gladio frowns. He sets down his half-finished beer. “Prompto,” he says, “how are you doing? I mean, for real, how are you doing. I know we’ve all kind of gone our separate ways for a bit but that doesn’t mean we don’t still care about you. How have you been holding up?”

“Fine,” Prompto says, and Gladio wants to punch something.

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” he asks before he can think better of it.

Prompto puts down his can of beer, too. “I’m good, Gladio,” he says, voice light but gaze somewhere in the distance. He’s always looking into the dark now. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

What the fuck does that mean? Gladio shifts into Prompto’s line of sight. “Prompto. Don’t tell me you’ve been going it alone—”

“I said I’m fucking fine,” Prompto snaps, and Gladio leans back. Something in Prompto’s expression sends a painful twinge in Gladio’s chest. “I’m a grown man now, Gladio, I don’t need you to take care of me, okay? I’m—I’m fine. Really.”

Gladio stares at him, and he thinks it’s funny, how you can think you know someone and then all of a sudden realize you really, really don’t. It’s funny, how once upon a time you were so close to these people and yet once one of you was missing, everything just falls apart. It’s funny, how you can suddenly remember that while Noctis was—is—the most important person in your life, it doesn’t mean that he wasn’t also the reason for living to someone else.

They don’t finish their beers, and they don’t talk for the rest of the night.

 

 

 

When you’re born into a family meant to serve royalty with your blood and life, you’re bound to have thick skin. You learn to be tough. You learn from your father, who is often away and comes home to teach you how to be strong; you learn from your brother, who rolls his eyes at any mention of the Crown Prince and who trains harder than anyone in order to serve said prince to his fullest; you learn from Ignis, who strict on the prince but even stricter on himself; you learn from Noctis himself, who is quiet and passive on the outside but kind and resilient when he needs to be. You learn from the prince’s best friend, who smiles like the sun and burns even brighter even when the sun refuses to rise.

Iris didn’t just lose her King when the endless night fell—she lost her brothers, too.

They’re not exactly gone, though. Just far, far away, more often than not lately. Ignis is closest by proximity, but she rarely sees him, both of them busy with their own volunteered duties. Gladio comes back to see her (to make sure she’s safe) as often as he can, but he’s always shouldering the harsher missions, the ones that go deep into daemon territory. Noctis is out of the question, but Prompto...

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Iris says, grinning at Prompto as he climbs off his motorbike. He’d salvaged it on one of his runs and worked with Cindy to fix it up, according to Talcott. He looks tired, but they all do.

“Iris,” Prompto greets her, smiling back. “I hear you’ve gained popularity as legendary hunter in these parts, eh?”

Iris waves a hand. “I’m just helping out where I can.” She tilts her head and studies him for a bit. “Have you met up with Ignis and Gladdy recently?”

“Uh, can’t say I have.”

She hums. “You guys don’t really work together anymore, huh.” She kind of regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Prompto isn’t facing her, but his shoulders hunch up, and he doesn’t reply right away.

“We’re just helping out where we can,” he says eventually, lifting his head to shoot her a weak grin.

Iris looks at him, but he looks away. When he gestures to the supplies he brought back, she lets him go.

She wants to call him back, call them all back, hold them together because it hurts to see them apart but she knows it probably hurts them more to be together when there’s one missing—but sometimes there’s just nothing you can do. So you keep your head up, and keep hoping.

 

 

 

When you’re a traitor to your country and a rogue mercenary on the run, you don’t have the time to mourn for somebody else’s king, you don’t have the time to play around with daemons prowling the lands like they own it, you don’t have time for pretty boys with a suicidal streak.

Aranea hooks her fingers on the back of Prompto’s jacket and pulls him out of the way, before jabbing her spear into the daemon and watching it die with satisfaction.

She rounds on the kid, spluttering and bleeding on the ground. Pathetic. Rations have been hard on everybody but there’s no way he’s been taking enough. He should never have been out here alone.

“Tell me,” she hisses, “what in Eos were you thinking? Coming out this far by yourself? With only your guns and a chocobo? Do you have a fucking death wish, you idiot?”

He shrinks, lowering his gaze.

“Were you trying to get yourself killed?” she continues, relentless. “Not just you, but your gods-damned chocobo, too. You know the birds can’t survive out in the wild by themselves anymore. I bet you didn’t even bring any curatives with you. What, has this shitty world finally got to you? You think you’re the only one who’s had enough?”

Prompto twitches. He still doesn’t make a sound. Aranea has always preferred to be alone. Being alone meant no human contact unless necessary, and no human contact meant no messy emotions. But now, she’s suddenly seething mad. Even she isn’t stupid enough to venture out here on her own. Two of her guys are positioned just a ways behind them, carrying low torchlights and keeping watch now that they’ve eliminated the last daemon.

“Hey,” she snaps, reaching down to grab at his collar. Prompto stares up at her, eyes wide and swimming with too many emotions than she had the patience to deal with. “You listen to me. You do no good getting yourself killed out here. I don’t care why you think you can just die here quietly like a hero, like you deserve it, or whatever. But you can’t, because you have people waiting for you back there.”

Prompto goes to shake his head, but Aranea tightens her grip.

“What do you think will happen if you just die like this? You think your little friends will be happy? You think those Lucians still clinging onto what little hope they have will be happy? You think that pretty boy king of yours will be happy?”

Prompto flinches. Aranea drops him.

“Don’t you fucking dare pull this kind of stunt again,” she tells him. She eyes him sitting there on the ground, shaking slightly. The shock has faded, and tears have begun to fall. She scoffs, turning away. “At least take off your stupid Crownsguard uniform before you try again,” she sneers, “because no proud Crownsguard I know would ever do something like this.”

In the end, Prompto goes back with them, but it takes a while. Aranea doesn’t bother pretending to comfort him. She knows that he knows just how badly he fucked up this time. He doesn’t try to defend himself, so she delivers him back to safety, and doesn’t mention the tear stains all over his shirt.

She doesn’t mention anything at all.

 

 

 

When you’ve been raised out under the sun and suddenly your entire world is plunged into darkness, sheer stubbornness pretty much keeps you going. The garage isn’t really much, but Hammerhead is in a good location for pit stops, so Cindy makes a decision, and sticks to it.

It’s hard, and it only gets harder. Cid gets sick, refuses to relocate to better resources, so Cindy asks her connections to find medicine. She doesn’t really work with cars anymore, but her hands and her head is good for fixing most things. This way at least, tinkering in her garage, she doesn’t have to think about how the skies feel like its closing in and she’s never missed the smell of sunshine baking on asphalt more.

Prompto comes around most often, and sometimes Cindy thinks she can remember sunlight again, the way he smiles, the way he talks like he used to when the boys come around with the Regalia, the way he assures her that everything will be okay.

But sometimes, he gets so quiet, it scares Cindy. But she’s never been a very good talker, just a do-er with grease up to her elbow and a bull-headed way of thinking things. She notices things, though. People never give her enough credit for that.

“How come you don’t take no pictures with that camera of yours anymore?” she asks him during one of his rare breaks at the diner.

And Prompto, who usually jumps at any opportunity to chat with Cindy, clams up faster than a truck tire can pop. His fingers twitch, as if missing the feeling of something square hanging around his neck.

“It’s, uh, kind of difficult now,” he says, “you know, with things like it is.”

“You’re right.” Cindy pauses. “Then, how come you don’t show us your pictures that you took before? I know you took lots of ‘em.”

He stares down at the table. His hair is messy, a little too long. “I don’t know,” he says, but he sounds like he does know.

Cindy doesn’t press. She knows from her own grandpa that there are some things that are off limits. But it does make her a little sad, seeing the boy so closed off about his passion.

She goes back to her garage, and hopes that the next time Prompto picks up his camera, it will be to capture a beautiful sunrise.

 

 

 

When you’re the Chosen King, everything sort of sucks. From the moment you were born, everything was set out for you, and everything you do is meant to ready you for the future. The future where you ascend the throne and rule over Lucis.

But, Noctis supposes, nothing is ever that easy, especially for chosen kings.

He comes back and brings the light back with him. That’s what the legends will say, years and years from now, but those closest to him will know what it was really like: the final battle, the desperation, the grit, the agony, the loss, and the bargained exchange. He comes back again, and Prompto’s teary-eyed smile is as bright as the sun rising behind him.

Rebuilding Insomnia, rebuilding his kingdom from ashes and dust, takes a long time. Noctis doesn’t really mind it, knowing he has his best friends at his side, and the strength of his people’s wills at his back. The very best thing is having Prompto laughing with him, making him feel like seventeen all over again, instead of far too old at thirty-and-then-some.

But sometimes he finds Prompto staring out the window, eyes too distant, and Noctis can’t help wondering what happened in that empty space when he was gone. Ignis and Gladio have told him about it, briefly, but neither of them ever really have much to say about Prompto. It makes sense, Noctis supposes, that the three of them split because the one that brought them together was gone, but it doesn’t lessen the guilt and regret that weighs heavy on Noctis’ chest.

Prompto talks about the improvements they made to the power plant over the ten years, he talks about how badass Iris became, how fast Talcott grew, how capable Cindy was in that garage of hers, how much Ignis and Gladio did for the people. But he never really talks about himself in those ten years.

Noctis doesn’t know how to ask. He doesn’t know if Prompto will ever be able to talk about it, if Prompto can ever come back from it. That’s what Noctis regrets most, he thinks. That he left Prompto all alone for ten years, and there’s never going to be enough time in the world to chase it back, no matter how generous the Astrals were to give him a second chance at being King.

“Noct!”

Noctis looks up from the paperwork in his hands and finds Prompto plopping down next to him with two lunchboxes. “Did Specs make those?” he asks, setting the papers aside.

“Yup! He’s determined to train himself to recognize things based on smell alone.”

“I bet he’ll have that mastered in no time.”

Prompto laughs, brightening the room. “Wanna bet how long it’s going to be before he comes up with another new recipe?”

Noctis smiles back at him. It’s okay, he decides. There are certain things Prompto can’t tell him. There are certain things Noctis can’t tell Prompto, too. But they’re here, alive, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the open blinds, the low thrum of new Insomnia below them, and that’s good enough for Noctis.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sad now ten years is a fucking long time this is reason #58 i'm going to fight square
> 
> as always, find me sobbing about these kids @puddingcatbae on tumblr or twitter


End file.
